Dinner

[Pyro]

The lighter, happier moment that the two had shared earlier in the library seemed like a lifetime ago. He had gone from being a bright, articulate, intelligent young man to being what could only be described as a brat in the space of a few hours. If ever anything put an emphasis on his youth, this was it.

The poor server, confused, took away the two massive dishes of tiramisu - John looked ready to cry at this - and returned with a cheese platter, an assortment of biscuits and crackers and some grapes, which he ate moodily instead.

"Heinrich will be here shortly to check your wound," said Giacomo, in his calm voice. "It may be worth you retiring to your room shortly."

Go to your room, John.

You've been a bad boy, John.

Get out of my sight. I don't want to hear your excuses any more.

Out of nowhere, the voice of his father, angry yet sorrowful came, unbidden into his mind and he stared at first Giacomo, then at Jane, then at the plate of cheese and biscuits. Suddenly, he felt about thirteen years old again and a flush of guilt coloured his cheeks. He got to his feet.

"I'll just..." he said, dropping the napkin. "Y'know. Bed. Yeah. Uh...thanks."

He looked at Jane.

"Night?" he tried, cautiously.

[Jane]

Weeeell. Awkward.

"Heinrich will be here shortly to check your wound. It may be worth you retiring to your room shortly."

Jane glanced up at John, her anger already dissipating - he was, after all, just a kid. Which had been her argument earlier? Well, whatever. She was a changeable sort of girl.

Evidently he felt ashamed of himself, or at least of his plate, since he was blushing at it so much.

"I'll just... Y'know. Bed. Yeah. Uh...thanks."

Giacomo made a gracious motion that Jane was pretty sure they sent rich boys to school for.

"Night?"

"Sleep tight!" Jane said brightly. If nothing else, she'd learned, be cheerful. It will at least confuse them.

[Pyro]

Heinrich did, indeed, arrive.

He did, indeed, check John's wound and general state of health and pronounced that though his blood sugar was a little high, the transfusion appeared to have taken well and there would probably be no lasting long-term effects other than perhaps a little stiffness in the shoulder for a while. He gave John a supply of painkillers to be used only in direst cases, and then the squat little man was gone again.

John did, indeed, sleep tight, although it took him some time to fall into slumber. When he slept, he dreamed, and when he dreamed, the dreams became nightmares and when he had the nightmares, he woke in the middle of the night, his face slicked with sweat, his heart racing.

He was not himself. He knew this. Something had changed in him, but he didn't know what. Even before the shooting, he had felt less healthy physically, but had simply put it down to over work and lack of adequate food and rest. Now, however, he was not so sure. He didn't want to mention it. Not for now, at least.

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep, slumbering away until morning crept into his room to proverbial slap him awake.

[Exit John, eventually, to thread Connection]